


Temptation

by JollyRogue



Category: The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons
Genre: Cuckolding, Daptain Strikes Again, Devious Seducers, Foot massages, M/M, Power Bottom Jopson, Praise Kink, Threesome, Threesome - M/M/M, Voyeurism, but who can blame them when they're so cute, cheating boyfriends!, horny idiots galore, let's pamper the cinnamon roll
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-13
Updated: 2019-05-31
Packaged: 2020-03-02 16:21:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18814558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JollyRogue/pseuds/JollyRogue
Summary: Frustrated and hungry for affection, Thomas Jopson makes a very foolish decision.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wildcard_47](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildcard_47/gifts).



> I've been thinking forever about writing a threesome with these horny idiots, and although it can't hold a candle to your masterpiece I just couldn't stop myself. ;)

Thomas Jopson sat at the table in the great cabin with the captain's greatcoat—Francis' faint scent still lingering in its lining—as his only company. It was a bleak November evening, the sun barely peeking out from below the horizon where it was soon to disappear for the whole winter. Even so, Francis Crozier had decided that the weather was still fair enough to spend time in the observation hut out on the ice.

 

The magnetic readings. Actually Captain Fitzjames from _Erebus_ had been assigned to do them, but apparently having found the work tedious he'd let Captain Crozier take over, and now Francis was out there in that tiny hut, staring through a brass scope and writing down a new number into a log with an already endless row of numbers, all the while in danger of frostbite claiming his fingers or nose. It was an important task for science, Thomas understood. This was, after all, what they had been sent to the Arctic for.

 

And yet, the dissatisfied sullen voice in the back of his mind reminded him that instead of being out there, Francis could be here with him right now.

 

The greatcoat needed mending. Part of one cuff was frayed; and there was a spot of tar, likely from having come into contact with freshly tarred ropework. Thomas decided to start with repairing the frayed edge, and picked up the needle and thread. Then he paused, and sighed.

 

He could be in Francis' arms right now, right in the little bed-cabin over there. Under a wolf-fur blanket, he could be wrapping his arms around Francis' broad back, open his thighs for him, kiss him …

 

He had already lost count of the times they made love in that very cabin since the start of the Antarctic expedition with Ross, but he had noticed that Francis responded to him less frequently for the past few months.

 

Perhaps it was the general Arctic melancholy that afflicted all of them more or less here —unlike in the Antarctic, there was no home port like Hobart to return to. Perhaps it was that dreadful polar bear out there preying on them, disheartening their spirit. Or perhaps Francis was simply tired. Thomas Jopson sought out explanations frequently, for they distracted him from the very worst possibility: that the captain was displeased with him.

 

“No, no,” he muttered to himself, holding the coat's soft inner lining to his face and inhaling deeply. They had a relationship based on mutual trust and openness: if there was anything, anything at all that bothered Francis, he would tell Thomas plainly. Did he not usually do so even with those ranking higher? He had outraged Sir John with a perfectly reasonable suggestion, after all.

Thomas sighed again, relishing the scent, a faint but very familiar mix of tobacco, whiskey and something else that he could not pinpoint but that made him feel warm and protected, that he could never get enough of.

 

Perhaps the simplest of all explanations was true: Francis, being older and burdened with increasing responsibility and fear in their current situation, was losing some of his desires; whereas Thomas, younger and occupied with ever more monotonous tasks, found himself craving more affection than before.

 

That must be it, Thomas decided as he breathed in the comforting smell. Then he quickly put the garment flat onto the table and scolded himself for dawdling and neglecting his duties.

 

But it was no use—his mind wandered because his body hungered, or was it vice versa? He thought of Francis' hands, weathered palms that could be both so gentle and rough, and he imagined them roaming beneath his waistcoat and shirt, caressing and squeezing his arse …

 

His face warmed pleasantly, and before long he was imaging himself kneeling before Francis, pushing his face into Francis' groin in an attempt to draw out the time of sweet anticipation.

 

Thomas picked up the needle and started sewing, but his mind returned to the scenario over and over, and soon his prick was half hard. For a moment he pondered the option of rushing into the bed-cabin and giving in to the fantasies, working himself all the way to finishing. Francis would not mind; in fact it would amuse him if Thomas were to tell him of it later.

 

A sudden knock at the door startled him, sending a hot flush of embarrassment all the way to his ears. _This is silly, Thomas, compose yourself!_ He straightened his posture and crossed his legs before shouting, “Do come in, please!”

 

The visitor was a surprise. Thomas had expected one of the lieutenants, or perhaps Gibson.

 

It was Commander Fitzjames.

 

“Good day. Is Captain Crozier here?” he demanded to know.

 

“No, sir,” Thomas replied, standing up to face him, as it was the polite custom with a superior. “He’s at the observation hut with Mr Blanky.” He noticed that he was still blushing from the naughty fancies he had entertained just before, and had to remind himself that no one could see into his mind. He hoped his red cheeks weren’t too visible in the dim lamplight.

 

“Well, I’ve got to talk to him. When do you reckon he’ll be back?”

 

“He left not long ago, sir. It will be at least an hour, perchance two.”

 

“Then I shall wait here, warm my feet at the stove—if you don’t mind, Mr Jopson?”

 

“Not at all, sir.” Thomas moved a chair closer to the stove. “Please.” He took Fitzjames’ coat, and placed it over another chair. The commander took his seat, stretching out his long legs. His boots were wet with snow, and Thomas figured he’d have to clean the floor of meltwater later; ideally before Francis returned. For now, his focus was—as he’d learned during many years of doing the same for Francis—on the other man’s comfort, and he knelt down in front of Fitzjames without much ado. “Allow me, sir.”

 

Before Fitzjames could even respond, Thomas was pulling his boots off, carefully but determined.

 

The commander had very shapely calves, he observed. And large feet.

 

Following his usual procedure, Thomas felt for any wetness from snow on those feet, gently massaging each foot in both hands, just as he always did for Francis. In those Arctic temperatures any moisture on socks was a main cause of frostbite and not to be trifled with. He glanced up at Fitzjames, and found a surprised look and raised eyebrows on the commander’s face.

 

“Pardon me, sir.” He released Fitzjames’ feet, and for an instant he felt like a little boy caught with one hand in the candy jar. “I’m just … making sure, er —”

 

“Of course, of course.” Fitzjames’ face broke into a wide smile. “That’s excellent, Mr Jopson. I was merely surprised because this isn’t something my steward does.” He chuckles. “I just hand him my socks to dry.”

 

Thomas knelt there, embarrassment returning warmly up his face. Naturally, he should've known—his relationship with Captain Crozier had probably always been more intimate than what was deemed proper. It wasn’t his place to paw another officer’s feet out of the blue!

 

He was about to stand up and prepare some tea to escape the situation, when Fitzjames asked, “Do you usually give your captain a foot massage, Mr Jopson?”

 

The question came so unexpected that Thomas’ mind went blank in want of a reply; and for some seconds he simply stared, open-mouthed, up at the other man towering over him on the chair. “I, erm …” He composed himself. “Well, yes, sir. If he requests it.”

 

Fitzjames tilted his head slightly, looking down at him with a smile and an almost cheeky sparkle in his eyes. “Would you mind?”

 

“With pleasure, sir!” Thomas shot back, and realized shamefully how eager he had just sounded. But that was his custom: whenever Francis requested something, _anything_ , he rushed to fulfill it. It was no longer something he ever questioned, but rather a reflex that came with the joyous thrill of having the chance to please his lover and master.

 

It was practically indecent that Thomas should feel the same thrill with someone else, a man who was decidedly _not_ Crozier,  but he couldn’t help it. He was too well conditioned.

 

He began his work in earnest, just as he always did for Francis, massaging Fitzjames’ leg from the knee down. For better access he rolled up both trouser legs, and felt the calves—how wonderfully muscled they were!—through the more snugly fitting knit stockings. Fitzjames responded with a short hum in appreciation.

 

Thomas shuffled closer so he could grasp him more firmly, enclosing one calf in both his hands, giving the leg a pleasant massage rather than feeling for melted snow.

 

 _This isn’t Francis,_ he had to remind himself with a conscious effort. Should he be so close to that man in front of him, then? He certainly was in very close proximity to the commander who now sat more relaxed, leaning back and legs spread wide. His crotch—at level with Thomas’ head—seemed even nearer than Francis’ usually was, probably owing to Fitzjames’ height, and for a moment Thomas thought he was feeling the warmth radiating from it. Or was it his own body’s reaction?

 

Thomas found himself staring at the deep, trousers-clad valley between Fitzjames’ thighs, and swallowed once before coming to his senses and looking back down. Damn his embarrassing reflexes!

 

Was it any surprise, though? Having spent many years on his knees in front of Francis sitting in that very chair, and sucking his cock …

 

_God damn it, Thomas, get it together!_

 

Hoping to project irreproachable diligence, he forced his gaze to stay down, to not let it wander, and focused on gently massaging Fitzjames’ feet. They were indeed larger than Francis’, and as far as he could feel it through the socks, the commander had longer toes as well.

 

Thomas allowed himself a brief glance up when asking, “Is this good, sir?”

 

“Oh yes,” Fitzjames hummed. “Very good. Go on.”

 

When he heard being appreciated like this, Thomas’ gut gave a little jump with excitement. It felt exactly like when Francis praised him. He forced himself to keep a serious face, focusing his attention on the feet. _This is not Francis,_ he reminded himself. _Do not show excitement._ He noticed the spotless, even tone of the socks and made a mental note to ask Bridgens how he got the wool cleaned so well. There was also a darned patch on the heel of the left sock, almost perfectly matching the wool’s texture. The other steward clearly knew his craft, and Thomas admired it for a moment. Then a deep sigh from Fitzjames distracted him once more.

 

The sound was almost indecent to Thomas’ ears— _Francis_ sounded like this, raspy and appreciative, usually shortly before deciding that he was in the mood for more and asked Thomas to bed …

 

_Oh God, keep your composure!_

 

Thomas exhaled as quietly as he could manage, and continued to rub Fitzjames’ feet, each between two hands in turn. They seemed to feel warmer and softer with every passing moment.

 

“Mr Crozier is a very lucky fellow,” Fitzjames muttered. Against Thomas’ will, the husky sound of the commander’s voice sent a most pleasant shudder down his spine. And by God, could his face feel any hotter still? He prayed that Fitzjames would not notice it. Perhaps it was better to stop, right now, before—

 

_Before what!?_

 

Thomas wanted to slap himself to stop lewd thoughts from intruding upon his imagination. Instead he tried to remain steadfast and remarked, hoping to sound cheerful, “That’s it, Captain. I hope it pleased you.” He stood, pretending to straighten his trousers over his sore knees to distract from his shaky legs. “Shall I prepare some tea while you make yourself at home, sir?”

 

Fitzjames took a moment to respond, his gaze fixed on the spot on the floor between his feet where Thomas had just been kneeling; and if Thomas hadn’t known any better he could have sworn that Fitzjames looked disappointed.

 

“Of course,” the commander finally said. “That would be very kind. Thank you, Mr Jopson.”

  


***

 

James Fitzjames watched the steward exit the cabin, taking in the back of that slim figure, and sighed.

 

Impossible to decide which was more amazing—the fact that Jopson gave unprompted foot massages as if that were an everyday duty in his profession; or the fact that he seemed so happy to serve that crusty, insufferable drunkard whom the Royal Navy, for some unfathomable reason, had deemed capable of being second-in-command on this glorious expedition. There was no end to the wonders to be encountered in these frozen lands.

 

Mr Jopson alone was a wonder in his own right. Although James had noticed him before, he hadn’t had a close look at him until now. Clear eyes the fascinating color of icebergs, but his gaze was warm and deep—especially when he had looked up at James from his kneeling position on the floor, right there between James thighs …

 

A most disturbing thought had then crossed James’ mind. It would have been so easy to reach out for that shiny dark hair and caress it, gently guiding the pretty boy’s head towards his groin, and Jopson would perhaps have been just as keen to comply with such a request as with any other. James imagined that pliant mouth against the head of his cock, clear fluids smeared over charming dimples and a soft, stubbled jaw line.

 

Then he thought of Crozier, and was momentarily alarmed. The _Terror’s_ captain had his vices, as everyone knew, but surely he would not—?

 

It was an upsetting thought, but since James had always heard such tales throughout his career, told in hushed tones, it would not surprise him.

 

Mr Jopson returned, carrying a tray with a kettle and two teacups, a pretty smile upon his face as he set it on the table before them. “Allow me, sir.” He placed a cup before James. With practiced elegance, he poured a stream of tea into it, slowly moving the kettle higher as the cup filled.

 

James sipped the hot tea and watched Jopson resume his needlework, and as he observed him—stealthily, he hoped, from quick glances over the gold rim of the china cup—his curiosity about the handsome steward grew. What was his relationship with Crozier really like?

 

And how did he, here of all places, manage to look so impertinently handsome and fresh-faced as if in the fine weather of an English spring?

 

James was reminded of the many times he had been drawing Greek statues in the British Museum, admiring how the Ancients had elevated the male form to the greatest possible ideal. An unattainable, unrealistic ideal, he had always assumed, but Jopson’s stature seemed to suggest just such beauty underneath the close-fitting waistcoat and trousers: a slim waist and round buttocks, accentuated rather than hidden by the uniform. Arms and shoulders strong yet graceful at the same time. Legs that moved elegantly and with purpose. And of course, that face.

 

Since Jopson’s gaze stayed downcast, focused on his work, James felt encouraged to look. There was indeed something Grecian about his features, with the delicate curve of his mouth and the long but well-proportioned nose.

 

And Captain Crozier was surrounded—attended, served— by this beauty every single day.

 

James set his cup down. “Mr Jopson …”

 

Jopson looked up at him with inquiring clear eyes. “Yes, sir?”

 

“Do you …” He sought for words. “Say, do you enjoy working for Mr Crozier?”

 

The question seemed to surprise Jopson. He stared at James for a moment before his dimpled smile returned. “Why, yes, sir,” he stated earnestly. “Captain Crozier is the best master one could wish for. If you pardon my frank words, sir, I know that he is misunderstood by you and Sir John. And while I know …” He paused, considering how to express himself. “I know that he may appear dull and brusque in his manner. But you should know that all he does, he is doing with the welfare of the ships’ companies in mind. He cares deeply for every single one of his men and would rather see us all home with our families before allowing to risk just one sailor’s life. It is highly unfair that this should be regarded as a weakness—” He abruptly stopped, and looked away.

 

James could not help but notice how long and dense Jopson’s eyelashes were. It was no wonder his pretty eyes stood out so much when they were so exquisitely framed.

 

“Pardon me, sir,” the steward said. “I meant no disrespect. I trust this will stay between us?”

 

“Of course.” James was unable to suppress a smile. He could have been offended that Jopson, in effect, had condemned Sir John’s treatment of Crozier, but he spoke with an ardent loyalty and affection that was impossible to ignore. It was truly wondrous and touching. What secrets did someone like Francis Crozier hold to inspire such genuine devotion in his servant?

 

Perhaps James had underestimated Captain Crozier, after all. _Where waters smoothest run, deep are the fords_ …

 

“No worries at all, Mr Jopson. Your integrity is commendable. Your captain is very lucky indeed.”

 

“You flatter me, sir!” Although Jopson tried to hide it, James could tell from the steward’s smile, the way he inadvertently bit his lower lip, how much the praise stirred him.

 

“So is Mr Crozier a kind master? He treats you well?”

 

Without hesitation Jopson shot back. “Yes, sir. I am the fortunate one. He is always considerate and amiable towards me, even in the most adverse circumstances.”

 

Fitzjames nodded. It was a curious thing to hear, and endlessly fascinating. He wondered whether Jopson might be enticed to tell even more. A foolhardy thought crossed his mind.

 

Previously, he’d had let his eyes wander about the cabin, and had noticed the crystal decanter and glasses on the shelf—Captain Crozier’s whiskey.

 

An audacious idea, perhaps. But entirely justified.

 

He stood, and made his way toward the finely cut glass bottle which, upon closer inspection, was indeed still half full of the tempting amber liquor.

 

“Sir?” A note of alarm crept into Jopson’s voice.

 

James took the whiskey bottle. Removing the glass stopper, he assured himself that this was indeed the whiskey he knew and preferred. He took two crystal glasses, and back at the table, began pouring.

 

“Sir!” Jopson shot up from his seat, eyes wide open. “I must protest!”


	2. Chapter 2

“Why, Mr Jopson, I know exactly that’s the whiskey he stole from me.” James grinned and sent a sideways glance at the flustered steward. “With _ your  _ reliable and competent help.”

 

Jopson opened his mouth but managed no more words of protest, let alone a self-defense.

 

“Now, I don’t blame you. In fact, I admire your loyalty and your conscientiousness.” James slid a glass of amber liquid toward the younger man. “This is why I’d be delighted if you would have a drink with me. Let’s discard the formalities for today. My name’s James.” He watched as Jopson eyed the whiskey glass for a moment, clearly torn between desire and duty; and grinned when Jopson finally lifted it up with a sheepish smile.

 

“I’m Thomas.”

 

“Thomas, a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” James raised his glass and winked at him. “To friendship and loyalty.”

 

“To our brave leaders.”

 

After the first sip—sweet Thomas Jopson was not used to it, as James observed with amusement—another idea slowly took shape in James’ mind.

 

James Fitzjames had always been what was commonly called a rogue. But how was it his fault when ladies and gentlemen, young and old, threw themselves at him at every opportunity? They wanted to be seduced, and with time James had acquired proficiency at reading the signs. And Thomas Jopson was projecting them very clearly.

 

The constant glances when he thought that James wasn’t looking at him? The fidgeting that had kept him from any significant needlework since James’ arrival? The way he inspected James’ entire figure (and probably thought he was being stealthy about it)? The pretend-shy smiles, the fluttering lashes, the lip-biting and frequent blushing?

 

James yet had to see anyone more ripe for the picking.

 

He let some time pass to enjoy the pleasant warmth the liquor sent flowing through his body. Just as he was about to prod at Thomas’ boundaries with a more personal question, Thomas spoke.

 

“May I ask you, sir … I mean, James—something personal?”

 

“Of course.”

 

“Do you …” Thomas leaned forward and lowered his voice, “... feel lonely at times here? That general … Arctic melancholia? Do they speak of it on  _ Erebus _ ?”

 

James nodded gravely. “Sir John would not approve of any talk of it. But yes, I think everyone feels it to some degree. There’s no shame in it. I have felt it, too.”

 

Thomas emptied his whiskey glass and exhaled audibly. A warm flush graced his apple cheeks, the sign of the alcohol doing its work, and James relished the sight. Thomas, too, was now looking more often and longer at him, and there was a new fire in his gaze, less and less tempered by his usual modesty.

 

“Surely Captain Crozier speaks about it, does he not?” James pressed on carefully. “As Arctic veteran and experienced realist—”

 

“He does speak of it to me”, Thomas interjected with amazing fervor. “But I— He doesn’t let it distract him from his duties, he says it is a burden we must carry. But I feel that sometimes it may be too much for him, as he withdraws more often and talks to me less and less nowadays—” He looked away as if ashamed, covering his mouth with one hand. “Pardon me, sir … James, I merely meant that …” 

 

Thomas’ other hand lay passively on the table; and very carefully James inched forward until he could detect the whiskey on the steward’s breath and the warmth radiating from him. Good heavens, the lad was even more beautiful now in his relaxed and glowing state. “Thomas … Is he neglecting you?”

 

Thomas looked at him, silent but with a heat in his wide open eyes that told James all he needed to know.

 

It was time to pounce. Gently, James lay his hand atop Thomas’ and whispered, “I would never neglect one as precious as you.”

 

Oh, he looked so ready with those lips wet and just barely parted, and James savoured the moment as he always did, only the sound of his own heartbeat in his ears, the other’s hot breath on his face.

 

Thomas jumped up.

 

For a moment James’ spirits fell—had he misjudged, mistaken the situation entirely? He watched Thomas sprinting to the cabin door. With a hectic movement, the steward slammed it entirely shut, closing the open crack that had hitherto still been there; then he stumbled backward against that door, breathing hard. When he spoke his voice had a sudden depth to it that made James shudder in exquisite ways.

 

“We must be very cautious, sir.”

 

“Yes,” James muttered, encouraged anew. “Yes.” He rose from his chair and moved toward him; and to his surprise Thomas was instantly in his arms. He burrowed his mouth and nose against James’ neck, grasping at the lapels of his commander’s uniform. “Stop me, sir,” he breathed. “Please stop me.” Soft lips sought and found James’ jawline, then his ear, and determined arms wrapped around him. “Oh God, sir.”

 

It was amazing, James managed to observe with some remaining clarity of mind, how Thomas Jopson still called him “sir” in these circumstances. If that did not raise some questions ...

 

“He’ll never forgive me.” In an instant, a previously clingy young man now reluctantly drew his face away from James, brows furrowed in concern. “Oh God, what am I doing!? You must not allow me, sir. He’ll never forgive …” 

His arms, however, remained tightly around James’ body.

 

This, too, was a situation the commander had handled before. He let a hand brush over Thomas’ cheek, very tenderly as if to comfort him, and whispered into his ear—the ultimate promise and permission that always seemed to turn a lever in his partners’ minds:

 

“He will never know.”

 

Thomas looked back at him, and James could practically watch the words work.

 

“Then have me.”

 

James did not need to be told twice. He wrapped one arm around him and placed the other hand on the back of Thomas’ head, feeling the luxuriant black hair, and pulled him roughly to himself. To this, the boy replied with a moan that completely belied his earlier warning to be cautious; a sound that threatened to tear the last of James’ restraint to shreds.

 

He gave in to the overpowering desire to taste and to devour, licking and kissing along Thomas’ jaw while tugging at his neckcloth to reveal more of that tender skin. Each of Thomas’ gasps, each time his fists bunched in James’ uniform or hair, drove him further. Every single of the steward’s sweet whimpers went straight to his already hard cock. Thomas likewise was tangibly excited, pressing his own hips desperately against James’.

 

He smelled so wonderful—James detected a whiff of fresh sweat mingled with rose water—it made him nearly dizzy, and he drank in all of that smell as deeply as he could from between the collar of Thomas’ shirt and his bare skin. Then, with his mouth he traced his way back up to the steward’s stubbled jaw and finally to his mouth, kissing him. 

 

It was clumsy, wet, impatient, and entirely exquisite. Thomas moaned, and it vibrated throughout James’ body. That pretty mouth did not just let him in—Thomas kissed back equally hard, practically forcing his tongue upon him. This was one who had kissed men before, but had been starving for the taste for some time, James realized. One far removed from being the innocent, respectable lad whose image he usually projected. 

 

Certainly the alcohol played a part in this, but there was a clear desire, a purpose to Thomas’ tongue chasing his, to Thomas’ hands on and under his waistcoat, that spoke of experience perhaps equal to James’. So he  _ was _ Captain Crozier’s lover indeed!? Astonished, James let himself turn from conqueror to conquered as his brain worked to process this very likely theory. Did that lovely mouth claim Captain Crozier’s so fiercely, too? Did those hands also regularly roam under the captain’s uniform?

 

Could Crozier really  _ handle _ this passionate young man?

 

The thought alarmed James and at the same time stoked his desire. He must have him. Thomas would see—he’d see and  _ feel _ what another man, more vigorous than Captain Crozier, was capable of. James would show him … give him what he needed! For a split second he pitied the  _ Terror’s _ captain who so obviously could not fully satisfy his devoted lover.

 

Thomas tasted of whiskey but at the same time infinitely more sweet, and James took back control, ravishing that mouth until he realized how far he’d bent the steward back, trapping him in a position that would make him fall over if it were not for James’ arms around him. Thomas did not seem to mind: he moaned, demanded wordlessly; and his lips were so soft, his arousal pushing against James’ so hard …

 

James broke up the kiss and looked at him, utterly captivated; a look that Thomas returned with fiery ardour in those gorgeous eyes. 

 

“I must have you,” James whispered.

Still looking at him, Thomas nodded in the direction of the bed-cabin.

 

***

 

Together with his best friend Thomas Blanky, Captain Francis Crozier walked back from the observation hut to the  _ Terror _ . Just in time as a snowstorm was announcing itself. The temperatures were already inclement enough to make their walk a hazard to the outermost body parts, and the ridges of the ever-pushing pack already high enough to make a 200-yard passage appear like two miles, and who knew that better than he and his experienced ice-master?

 

Back home on the ship he bid Blanky a good night, and looked forward to his own rest.

 

Entering the great cabin he was surprised to find it empty. He had expected to meet Thomas Jopson at the large table, occupied with needlework as he’d left him, and indeed the greatcoat and sewing kit lay there. But what captured his attention then were the two crystal glasses on the table, and the whiskey bottle from which a significant amount of drink was missing.

 

_ What in the blazes of Hell!? _

 

He was about to shout Thomas’ name, demanding an explanation. 

 

But then the sound from the bed-cabin reached his ear. A high-pitched whimper, followed by a raspy moan.


	3. Chapter 3

***

 

That wasn’t likely. Francis was hearing things—it was the pack ice playing tricks on his ears. Wasn’t he familiar with the strange ways the ice could behave, the unbelievable sounds it was capable of, let alone the effect it could have on mens’ minds? It was just a matter of time until the neverending, unpredictable groans of the vast pack ice field were bound to tug at the most resolute sailor’s sanity.

 

But … this sound. There was it again!

 

Slowly, Francis inched closer to his bed-cabin. A ray of lamplight shone from the sliding door that was not entirely closed. As he heard the sound again, louder this time, it was clear that he was not imagining it at all.

 

It was the familiar voice of his beloved steward, very audibly in the throes of passion—a sound that Francis would have recognized anywhere in this huge expanse of frozen land, anywhere on this whole cursed planet!

 

And there was, he realized, another voice as well.

 

Not daring to breathe, he leaned forward and peeked through the open crack between the sliding door and its frame.

What he saw made his heart forget at least one beat.

 

 _James fucking Fitzjames_ lay on his bed— _his_ bed!—half undressed; and Thomas Jopson was atop him, fully naked save for his dress shirt hanging precariously off one shoulder. The younger man was moving astride the commander, or rather trying to find a hold and balance on the railing and shelf to his sides while trying to move at the same time. And Fitzjames was thrusting into him in a regular staccato interspersed with the occasional grunt.

 

Francis would have found it merciful to faint right here and now. Instead, he managed only an inaudible whimper while frozen in place. So he stayed. And stared.

A tornado of theories, of possible explanations, rushed through his mind. There were quite a few people whom he would think capable of such transgressions, of betrayal, but _Thomas Jopson!?_

 

The steward was clearly consumed with a world of delight. Head thrown back and eyes closed, he let Fitzjames take over and and lost himself in the sensation. His pretty lips were at times parted in gasps and moans, at times he bit them to suppress the same. Tousled black locks stuck to his sweat-damp forehead.

 

There was no way Thomas could have an affair, Francis thought, desperately and frantically looking for a logical way to frame the madness he saw. At what opportunities could his steward ever possibly have had the leisure to entertain any such scheme? Francis could think of nothing that explained this. It was just impossible. And wasn’t Thomas utterly devoted to him, his captain and lover? How could this be? The only feasible explanation quickly stood out: This must be a spontaneous encounter, fueled by alcohol; an impromptu seduction.

 

Orchestrated, of course, by that shameless scoundrel, James Fitzjames, whose reputation as a skirt-chaser (and of course, trousers-chaser as well, from the looks of it!) was well known among the higher ranks, not least because that pompous prick could never keep his gob shut about his adventures!

 

Francis was ready to rage. He should be storming into the cabin. Put an end to this depraved spectacle. Punch that insufferable jackass into his oversized jaw.

 

His face was glowing hot, his fists clenched. But still he stared, immobile. As the seconds passed, turning into a minute and then two, he felt the anger leave, slowly but surely each time he exhaled.

 

Thomas was so devastatingly beautiful—somehow even more now that Francis was committing what felt like an intruding look, a violation. Although so familiar with Thomas’ body, this sight was not one Francis was supposed to see. Yet he could not move, not look away. Each time he was with Thomas, he would look into those eyes and be completely disarmed, and the same thing was happening right now.

 

Wasn’t it the most important thing that his beloved should have all the pleasure he wanted— _deserved!?_ Who was Francis to deny him? Why should he deny him this? Perhaps Francis had been lying to himself all along about his ability to match a younger man’s desires.

 

To his own surprise this realization did not bring down his spirit. Instead he watched, with fresh fascination, as his lover was being pleasured by another, and accepted the fact for what it was. Thomas looked more captivating than ever, but in a new and different way than Francis had ever before looked at him.

 

It wasn’t just his lovely face flushed with passion. It wasn’t just the muscles in his thighs as he rode up and down the commander, or the way the open shirt, about to fall down, framed his chest.

The real beauty lay in Thomas’ liberty and ability to do as he pleased, his ultimate freedom from Francis’ control.

How blind and stupid and foolish Francis had been to take his lover for granted! This— _this_ was exactly what they both fully deserved. This was right.

 

He stood there, and continued watching with bated breath. Fitzjames was now close to finishing, and Thomas tried to match his rhythm but with little success: Fitzjames’ last thrusts were erratic and short; and he gripped the steward’s hips firmly to push him down as he spent into him.

 

Thomas looked surprised at first, then sighed—very obviously, to Francis, not yet satisfied himself. A slight frown betraying disappointment appeared on his face.

 

“Forgive me,” Francis heard Fitzjames’ breathless voice. “I just couldn’t…”

 

This would not do. This absolutely would not do.

 

Francis Crozier could stand it no longer. He yanked the cabin door open with a slam.

  


***

 

In the seconds that followed, both Thomas and James turned to see him, both with eyes wide open in shock. Thomas covered his mouth with one hand and breathed in sharply.

 

“Captain”, Fitzjames gasped. He made a reflex-like movement as if trying to cover himself, but with Thomas Jopson still motionless atop him there was not much he could do and he ended up gripping the steward’s waist, face frozen in terror. And then, immediately, he pulled his hands back like someone touching a boiling hot pot.

 

Francis lifted a hand, signifying them both to stay calm, as he took in the scene before him, their shocked, flushed visages.

 

Thomas spoke next. “Captain,” he repeated breathlessly, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry…”

 

“Shhh”, Francis gently moved his palms toward him, a calming gesture and at the same time telling him to stay where he was. “It’s fine, Thomas. It’s all fine.” He took a step toward the bunk, feeling both their terrified looks on him, and took his steward’s hand in his. “Thomas, I love you, I love you so very much.”

 

Thomas stared at him, blinking, mouth half open as he tried to work out how those words fit into the larger picture.

 

“Francis, I—” Fitzjames tried to interrupt, but Francis cut him off with an aggressive shush, not even looking at him but focusing his full attention on his lover.

 

He had looked into Thomas’ eyes so many times previously in this very same manner—surely Thomas could not doubt his captain’s sincere words then. Francis said to him, grasping his hand more firmly, “This was amazing.”

 

Thomas’ expression relaxed slightly as he could clearly see that his captain was not angry at him, although he still had a hard time working out what he’d just heard. “It … was!?”

 

Francis nodded. Then he turned toward Fitzjames.

 

“How _dare_ you,” he spat at the commander. “You irresponsible scoundrel! What do you think you’re doing!?”

 

Again, Fitzjames opened his mouth to speak, but was swiftly cut off.

 

“Finishing _before_ he does!?” Francis roared. “And you call yourself a gentleman, you selfish gobshite! Leaving my boy unsatisfied! _This will not do!”_

 

Francis looked at Thomas, knowing well the effect that his captain’s voice could have on him, and it was wonderfully clear in this instant. He was so close he could see the goosebumps on Thomas’ arms. “What do you say? I can see—”, a brief glance in the direction of a still shocked but silent Fitzjames —, “that _he_ hasn’t fully served you. Will you let me do it?”

 

Thomas was speechless. But he nodded. Tentatively at first, as if he was not entirely sure that Francis was not playing a cruel joke on him, but he must know that this wasn’t something Francis ever did. The longer he looked into Francis’ eyes, the more he seemed to understand. “Yes,” Thomas whispered at first, then—a little louder, pleaded, “Yes. Please.”

 

“Maybe I should—” Fitzjames began again, but Francis cut him off, pointing at him. “You—stay!”

 

From the commander’s aghast expression he realized, not without secret enjoyment, the power he had over him in this moment. “Stay right there!”

 

Then he turned to Thomas. “Get on all fours.”

 

It was folly, certified recklessness, but wasn’t their entire endeavour a complete folly at this point? Francis divested himself of his greatcoat and shoes clumsily and in a hurry. His cock was straining against his trousers, in the hardest state he’d ever sensed in months. Then he climbed onto the already crowded bunk.

 

Kneeling before Thomas’ backside he took a moment to savour the sight offered to him: that round apple bottom he knew so well, the little hole reddened and dripping with spendings; only that this time they weren’t his own, but those of a _rival_ —Fitzjames’ own seed. It ran down the insides of Thomas’ thighs, and it was both stunning and infuriating.

 

If he would be asked about it later, he’d be unable to fully explain how this sight drove him, irresistibly and unstoppably, to take possession of his lover _now_ ; with a want that went beyond all desires he’d known before. If anything, it was perhaps explained with a primal drive to overcome said rival.

 

Francis did not think in those words, not now. He only felt the urge, and followed it.

 

He thrust into Thomas, unceremoniously but with ease, prompting a high-pitched moan from the younger man and an obscene, wet sound as he pushed fully inside.

 

After some seconds of getting used to the exquisite warmth engulfing him, Francis opened his eyes and looked down, past Thomas’ back and shoulders. His gaze met Fitzjames’.

 

***

 

What in the name of some Arctic Neptune and his feral bear-dog had he gotten himself into!?

 

James Fitzjames still lay on Crozier’s bed, not quite sure what to make of the situation. He’d covered his nakedness haphazardly with the corner of a sheet, but otherwise he was still blatantly dishevelled and undressed, and lying under Thomas Jopson who was hovering over him on all fours, his face mere inches from James’ as Captain Crozier pounded into him from behind.

 

Usually James was the one who’d always manage a spectacular entrance or an elegant exit, whatever the situation called for. For Heaven’s sake, his many affairs _required_ that he knew what the situation called for!

 

But right now he was at a complete loss.

 

Experience dictated that he flee the scene when a cuckolded lover showed up or was approaching—he’d had to jump or climb out of windows wearing only his drawers more than once—and stay away until heated minds cooled down.

 

At that moment, however, he met Crozier’s gaze; looked up at Crozier who knelt behind Thomas, and there was no jealousy in the captain’s cool blue eyes. Instead, James found a mischievous sparkle under curiously raised eyebrows, and was too transfixed to even think of escape.

 

Thomas Jopson, too, was looking at him, his whole body rocking forth and back with each of his captain’s firm thrusts, and his ocean-clear eyes meeting James’ as if saying, _I can’t believe this either_. So much closer now, he looked even more ravishing—or rather, _ravished_ , with the little panting sounds that fell from his open mouth, the glow of passionate heat on his cheeks.

 

James stared back at Captain Crozier, noting a never before seen expression on the captain’s face: A shameless grin, directed at him. Dull, dour Francis Crozier who’d ever only looked at him with concern and contempt, who’d ever only gazed in melancholy out at the endless ice seas. That captain was now regarding him with a brazen, amused smirk. A ruddy glow had appeared on his weathered face, and the play of his eyebrows seemed quirkier every second James stared at him, equally puzzled and fascinated.

 

“Didn’t expect this, huh, Mr Commander?” Crozier growled in an unabashed Irish brogue that gave James unexpected goosebumps. “Didn’t think sulky old Francis had it in him, did you?”

 

“I, um—” James felt the heat creep up his neck. Thomas’ moans, his warm breath on James’ face, it all could have distracted him, yet James remained captivated by Crozier—the way the captain looked at him, grinned at him … No, this must not be. This was ridiculous! Ludicrous!

 

“At a loss for words, Commander?” Crozier teased him.

 

How to reconcile this shameless rascal with the Captain Crozier he’d thought he knew? James realized his mouth must have stood open for quite some time, and, blushing, he closed it. For a moment there was silence save for the wet sound of skin slapping onto skin, Thomas’ panting and moans hot on the base of his neck as the steward burrowed his face into James’ collar.

 

“No need to say anything.” Crozier winked at James. “Why don’t you help him finish, huh? Since you already started this.” He paused briefly between thrusts, reaching down to caress Thomas’ hair.

 

So be it, then!

 

They could say that James was a rake, a dangerous and devious seducer, but they could never say that he _ever_ left any of his conquests unsatisfied. He was not about to lose that reputation.

 

Taking a deep breath he grabbed Thomas’ hair and pulled him into a greedy kiss, savouring the exciting contrast between his soft, dewy lips and jaw rough with stubble. He tasted of sweet desperation, and his muffled moans vibrated throughout James’ face.

 

At the same time James reached down, thanking the Lord for giving him long arms, fumbling blindly until he found Thomas’ cock, still—or again—hard, and leaking, between their bodies. Enclosing his hand around it he simply left the work to Crozier so that each of the captain’s strokes was thrusting Thomas forward in James’ firm grasp.

 

“My God,” Thomas gasped against James’ mouth. “Oh God, oh—!”

 

Encouraged anew, James kissed along the younger man’s jaw and neck, recalling how sensitive he was there, all the way to his earlobe, very gently alternately licking and biting it.

Thomas winced, but his expression and the way he presented his neck and ears, told James how much he appreciated this attention. Once more, James gazed in wonder at this gorgeous face, thinking it might just take his breath away. While Thomas was usually pretty to look at—right now with his mouth open, brows furrowed and eyes either closed or glassy with overt lust, he was _stunning_.

And for the very shortest of moments James felt a shameful pang of jealousy for Captain Crozier who always had this sight at his beck and call.

 

Thomas Jopson, too, was a lucky bastard, James thought. In all his memories of past depravities, he hadn’t considered how wonderful it might be to be fucked _and_ kissed _and_ caressed _and_ masturbated all at the same time. But if anything, James was proud to contribute to this level of lewdness.

 

Grinning to himself, he devoted more attention to Thomas’ neck with his mouth, and although it proved tricky, continued holding the steward’s erection throughout. It twitched occasionally, hot and heavy in his palm. The lad truly had it all, even a constant hard cock!

 

Pushing two fingers of his other hand into Thomas’ mouth, James let the younger man suck them as far as he was able to while being rocked forth and back. As soon as they felt wet enough, James brought his fingertips down to Thomas’ nipples, teasing and softly pinching them, eliciting a loud gasp from the steward. In his other hand James felt Thomas’ erection tremble.

 

What a joy to have him literally in his hand, lost in pleasure and so palpably near the brink! James smiled at the face above him, and Thomas was gazing back at him with a look of mild shock as if to say, _I’ve never known this sensation before_ ; and indeed, with one squeeze of James’ one hand and a purposeful caress with the other, Thomas’ eyes closed again and his mouth fell open. “I—I—” he breathed, “oh my God, I can’t—oh—!”

 

What a joy, indeed! James caressed Thomas sweat-damp neck, admiring his look of unchecked lust. Then, with his mouth close to Thomas’ ear, he whispered, “I can see your captain from here, behind you, fucking you. Good and hard. This must feel so wonderful, doesn’t it?”

 

“Yes,” Thomas whined.

 

“He’s working hard, and it’s all for you.” A glance further at Crozier confirmed this. The captain of the _Terror_ was holding on to Thomas’ waist, still pounding into him relentlessly, somewhat slower than before but with no less vigour. His face was red with exertion, and he was panting just as his lover.

 

James brushed his still-moist fingertips lovingly over Thomas’ lips and cheek. “So hard. Fucking you so good. He must really love you very, very much.”

 

Thomas responded with a shudder of delight, an incoherent whimper. Part surprised, part thrilled at the effect of his simple words, James knew he must not stop now. “How could he not? When you’re so gorgeous, so lovely in every way. He is so lucky to have you … Oh yeah. Your captain loves you so damn much.”

 

 _“Oh,”_ Thomas cried out, and at once his body and face tensed—only his mouth stayed slack, forming an O—and James felt the telltale pulse in his grip.

 

Thomas spent in three forceful spurts, the first landing as far up as James’ chin. And James held him through it, whispering more sweet nothings into his ear.

 

Captain Crozier had paused, perhaps having finished as well, so Thomas was able to rest for a moment on his shaky, trembling arms and knees. Loosening his grasp, James carefully slid Thomas’ foreskin forth and back one more time to release the last drops from his still-hard manhood.

 

“Oh my.” Thomas opened his eyes, blinking, squeezing them shut a few times, as if trying to wake from a dream. “Whoa.” He stared at James who was grinning back at him.

 

“Oh yeah,” James breathed. “Whoa.”

 

***

 

Thinking it was the polite thing to do, James quickly extricated himself from the exhausted lover-pile and awkwardly dressed himself. Thomas Jopson and his captain remained resting in the narrow bunk; Crozier holding his tired lover in his arms and gazing at him in quiet wonder. The scene was so sweet that James could not avert his eyes, and smiled at them although he started to feel like an intruder.

He was about to leave the cabin and leave the two to themselves, when Thomas called from the bed. “James, wait!”

 

James turned around. Thomas had covered himself with a blanket, huddled in Crozier’s arms, and on his face shone pure bliss. He bit his lower lip when looking at James. “We’ll do this again, right?” Turning to Crozier, “Surely we can do this again, Captain? Please?”

 

If Crozier was at all shocked, he did not reveal it. He chuckled, his gaze meeting James’. There was no trace of jealousy there, no bitterness. Actually, it was a rather handsome face, too, James thought. So happy and content. And then his eyebrows did this curious thing again.

 

“Well,” he growled at James, winking. “You heard the lad.”

 

***

 

It hadn’t exactly become a habit—one couldn’t just disappear with another captain and his steward into a bedcabin without arousing suspicion—but to James’ delight they always found another opportunity to meet in a _ménage à trois_.

 

Their encounters invariably turned into a pretend-competition between James and Crozier to coax a maximum of pleasure out of Thomas, who also would increasingly express specific wishes, even in the heat of the moment telling his lover-captains precisely how he wanted to be fucked, touched or smacked. Whatever shyness he may have exhibited—if it had been at all real—was now gone.

 

To James’ surprise he and Crozier worked well as a team, one always complementing the way the other was pleasuring their younger lover. Their lovemaking appeared almost coordinated—except for the times James paused and caught himself looking at Crozier, admiring how the older man could treat his delighted steward in every way gentle or rough, and secretly imagined how those secure, experienced hands might feel on his own body.

 

They often met for a drink or a cup of tea afterwards, attended by a dutiful, serious Thomas Jopson whose neatly combed hair and carefully arranged clothes betrayed no trace of the unbridled passion he’d previously displayed in the simultaneous embraces of two men. Even his step was light, his gait as elegant as ever, although they had ravaged his pretty arse not quite an hour ago.

 

It was at one of these relaxed moments with Francis, at the large table in the captain’s cabin, that James realized he’d completely reassessed his earlier impression of the older man. Beneath his serious facade Francis was caring and kind. A good listener—not one of the sort who delighted in yet another adventure story—but of the sort who made him feel at ease and at home, safe in the knowledge that it was fine even not to talk for a while at all. James had almost forgotten what that was like: not feeling a need to perform and entertain. With Francis, the quietness was comfortable. All it took at times was Francis’ hand on his, and a look from Francis that told him, _yes, this is all right._

 

His newfound appreciation for Francis soon went even further. One night when they both devoted their attention to Thomas once again, spoiling him with four hands and two mouths as usual, James decided to go for Thomas’ cock in the exact same moment the exact same idea occurred to Francis.

 

Below Thomas’ bellybutton, both their skulls bumped hard into one another, painfully enough to make James exclaim a surprised _“Ow!”_

 

He and Francis looked at each other, bewildered; and Francis was feeling at his forehead. Then they both burst into laughter, Thomas joining in.

 

“Kiss it better,” Thomas suggested breathlessly, at both and no one in particular, his hands resting on the back of both their heads, and James looked up to find a mischievous sparkle in his not-so-innocent ocean-colored eyes.

 

Francis reacted first, pressing a kiss to James’ throbbing forehead, prompting a giggle from James. He, of course, had to return the favour immediately, and better, too! James grabbed Francis’ cheeks, pushing his lips to Francis’ brow.

 

Not to be outdone, each was soon kissing various parts of the other’s face, until at last James did the unthinkable and pressed his mouth onto Francis’.

 

He was kissing _Francis fucking Crozier_ and loving every hot, rough, hearty moment of it.

  


—the end—


End file.
